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Nope, I think I will go back a few (a relative term) years to sitting around a potbelly stove in a country general store, listening to some older Tennessee folks explain why things are they way they are and how they could be fixed. Religion was scrupulously avoided unless it was well known that the religion of conversation was not held by anyone in the room or any of their close kinfolks. Politics, on the other hand, most often was fair game. There were very few other ground rules. Zack Cathey, the storeowner who always had a half-chewed up/half-smoked cigar, would occasionally remind the assemblage that they needed to pay for whatever they smoked, chewed, drank, or ate. He was frequently pulled away from his spot by the stove to make someone a baloney and cheese sandwich or just to cut a chunk of baloney and cheese to go with a handful of crackers. Of course another rule included not spittin' tobacco juice on the floor- spittoons, actually coffee cans, were provided-if you missed the can, a stern rebuke or some other form of general disapproval was in order. Sometimes to add emphasis to a point of discussion or to take attention away from something else, someone might open the door of the stove and spit in the fire. The effect when wood was being burned was different than when coal was the fuel; then the fireworks could be spectacular-and next the slamming of the door accompanied by a cloud of soot perfumed with cooked chewin' tobacco. Breathtaking, unless you remembered to hold your breath. An occasional sip from a small bottle stashed in a back pocket was generally accepted. On one occasion, one man who seemed more tolerated than welcomed was drinking a clear liquid from a Ball canning jar; before anyone could stop him, he insisted that I take a sip. My first exposure to "shine," I choked for five minutes and he was directed by Zack to leave immediately. (Maybe I should point out that my uncle was an elder in the Church of Christ.) Drinking a beer or drunkenness was dealt with quickly because Zack was not licensed to sell alcohol. Me, I was just the quiet kid that sat on a coke crate in the corner, enjoying my Nehi Peach coke (a note to Northern readers-- in the South, any soft drink is called a coke) or Sundrop and eating my MoonPie-- either bought by one of the gentlemen or on the house from Zack. Now would be the obvious time to wonder where I am going with all of this-good question---give me a little more rope, please. Looking back now, I can remember most of those faces, winter or summer, maybe even the checker game on the side and the few games I was allowed to win. There was always something worth discussing, and for me, worth hearing. Remembering all of them that I can, the vast majority of these men had third or fourth grade educations, if that, maybe sometimes a little more and rarely some high school or a high school diploma. Anytime anyone there had more, you could bet an election was near and politicking was taking place. I studiously managed to keep quiet unless spoken to; it only took dagger eyes or a general avoidance by all to make me shut my mouth-and that didn't happen often. Even then, I was amazed at the intelligence and sheer wisdom of these men-- farmers, handymen, folks just squeezing out a living-- and just how much I could learn from them---more lessons in life than from any classroom. I especially enjoyed when someone from the "city" tried to impress everyone with his or her education-usually they were "skinned" within about five minutes and didn't even realize it. As far as the "her" just mentioned, yes, women did join the discussions, albeit very rarely. These country folks gave me one of the greatest blessings I have ever received-learning how to listen. This lesson served me well later as a mental health therapist and in all the other jobs I have had. This same lesson naturally carried over to writing. I do not consider myself a writer, maybe more a bender of words. I have frequently drawn from these people of my youth---I learned that if you wanted to know what you were talking about, first you needed to listen---if you wanted to learn to write, you needed to read---a lot from many different writers. Finally, one of the last lessons I learned from the general store---if you screwed up, have enough integrity to take the heat yourself. Hmmm, seems as though that could work for writing too.
Choosing one may block others One step at a time © Will Dixon 2009 Will Dixon is a tenth generation
Tennessean, but has since his college days lived in Mississippi,
Germany, Texas, Florida, Australia, Tennessee again, and then
back to Florida where he now lives in Rockledge, a small city
a few miles inland from the Space Coast. Each place was the same
and different as were its people - an education in itself if
one were not foolish enough to ignore it, and he has tried his
best not to ignore the people or the places. Now the voices come
back either as characters or inspirations. The voice of an opal
miner in the Outback might come back as the voice of an old sailor.
Will is left-handed, dyslexic, an Aquarian, and has been told
by numerous doctors that he has neurological issues; so he claims
he is probably wired differently and looks at things from different
angles than most folks. All well for writing, sometimes good
for life issues, but can play hell when he is trying to understand
the symbols used for international road signs! |
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Probably Will:
Okay,
my first attempt at a column here-trying to get into the right
spirit by listening to "Truckin"-of course by the Grateful
Dead-a great song and a great poem with two of my favorite lines---"What
a long, strange trip it's been"--and it has been-- but then
the one most apropos to this effort, "Sometimes your cards
aren't worth a dime, if you don't lay 'em down." Writing
always seems so easy when I'm reading someone else's work, but
then when I start myself---do I go for the profound, puzzled
look or the easy laugh or an easier shot at pathos?
From The Attic
Cheshire Cat
Songs of